Retox
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The kid –who looks a little like a pint-sized Butterbean- just kind of slips into the kitchen as I’m pouring milk into my bowl. The food, inspected under a black light only moments before, is presumed safe for my consumption.
But I’m still pretty groggy and not 100% I’m not dreaming the kid up: I decide to say nothing and try and ignore him in case.
-The possible illusion is shattered moments later as he loudly slides into a chair at the table.
“Hi,” he says shyly, averting my gaze.
“Hi,” I reply, chewing.
A few uncomfortable moments of silence follow.
“Is that cereal?”
“No,” says me, eyeing him warily. “It’s Peanut M&Ms.”
“Huh,” he says. "Do you always wear welding goggles at breakfast?"
"Son, you ever get hard candy shell in your eye?"
"No."
"Well then don't knock good protective gear. This isn’t some bullshit caramel nugat: this stuff is engineered to melt in your mouth. Not in your eye."
More silence. He starts uncomfortably looking around the kitchen. “Miss Terri said I could come in and talk to you.”
“Are you done?”
“No. See I have this school project where I have to interview people of different occupations.” He flips open a notepad. “I have you here as an ‘Author.’ Is that correct?”
I examine his beady little eyes for signs of sarcasm.
“You want to interview me?” I ask.
“Well my dad thought it was a good idea. Since you don’t actually have a job, he figured he wouldn’t have to drive me anyplace.”
I drop my spoon into the bowl -now empty except for discolored milk- and lean back in my chair. “Who is your dad again?”
“We live next door.”
I scowl without recognition.
“You killed my gramma with a Lawn Jart last summer,” he adds helpfully.
My eyebrows furrow. I gesture for him to stand and turn around. And sure enough, there’s that distinctive blocky skull shape.
“Oh yeah,” I says. “Man, your mom was pissed."
[LOBO]
The kid –who looks a little like a pint-sized Butterbean- just kind of slips into the kitchen as I’m pouring milk into my bowl. The food, inspected under a black light only moments before, is presumed safe for my consumption.But I’m still pretty groggy and not 100% I’m not dreaming the kid up: I decide to say nothing and try and ignore him in case.
-The possible illusion is shattered moments later as he loudly slides into a chair at the table.
“Hi,” he says shyly, averting my gaze.
“Hi,” I reply, chewing.
A few uncomfortable moments of silence follow.
“Is that cereal?”
“No,” says me, eyeing him warily. “It’s Peanut M&Ms.”
“Huh,” he says. "Do you always wear welding goggles at breakfast?"
"Son, you ever get hard candy shell in your eye?""No."
"Well then don't knock good protective gear. This isn’t some bullshit caramel nugat: this stuff is engineered to melt in your mouth. Not in your eye."
More silence. He starts uncomfortably looking around the kitchen. “Miss Terri said I could come in and talk to you.”
“Are you done?”
“No. See I have this school project where I have to interview people of different occupations.” He flips open a notepad. “I have you here as an ‘Author.’ Is that correct?”
I examine his beady little eyes for signs of sarcasm.
“You want to interview me?” I ask.
“Well my dad thought it was a good idea. Since you don’t actually have a job, he figured he wouldn’t have to drive me anyplace.”
I drop my spoon into the bowl -now empty except for discolored milk- and lean back in my chair. “Who is your dad again?”“We live next door.”
I scowl without recognition.
“You killed my gramma with a Lawn Jart last summer,” he adds helpfully.
My eyebrows furrow. I gesture for him to stand and turn around. And sure enough, there’s that distinctive blocky skull shape.
“Oh yeah,” I says. “Man, your mom was pissed."
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